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Undercover of the Night
For All Nails #135: Undercover of the Night by Mike Keating ---- :Black Rock, New York, N.C., CNA :8:00 AM, 29 November 1974 Chief Superintendent FN1 Kevin Fleming walked toward the Confederation office building and the CBI facilities within. It was chilly, just below freezing. He would never get used to the weather in this city. In fact, he had rarely been outside the Southern Confederation except for CBI Academy outside Burgoyne and this posting. He'd wondered every day what would happen if he'd stayed as the second man in Charleston. A warmer slot of this level would've opened up soon. The head of the Norfolk office was said to be retiring at the end of the year, but he thought it was a rumor. Now he was troubled by more than weather. There'd been a lot of army club activity going on recently, and it may have had an illegal element to it. It was especially worrying if you believed the news about what Mercator had been up to in Mexico, and what he'd been approving. But Fleming and the rest of the CBI wanted evidence from this end. Anything Moctezuma may be willing to provide them wasn't enough; it had to be backed up. The other CBI offices in the N.C., Indiana, and Manitoba had all taken steps. A secret general directive had gone out shortly after Liddy went missing and the new director took over. Burgoyne suspected something was up, and Sir Benjamin Anthony wanted all offices to gather as much information as they could on these movements. Fleming had put a plan in motion for Black Rock. He had decided if he wanted to get information that it would need to come from the army clubs themselves. So he had sent an operative to infiltrate them. Now the plan had borne fruit. Agent Richards-Keith had eavesdropped on a conversation containing the description and airmobile flight agenda of the man believed to be the clubs' USM contact. Make that ex-contact, he thought. The USM seemed to have gotten out of this business. Yes, Richards-Keith was doing well. The contact was due to fly to New York, then to Berlin. From there was unknown, but it didn't matter. He had stationed his men at the airport, contacted the local millies, and alerted the Boston office. He might catch some heat from Burgoyne over this for ordering the detaining of a USM official while Moctezuma looked to be improving relations. He didn't care. This was Mercator's agent, so Moctezuma would be likely as not to overlook it. Besides, Richards-Keith had said there was information from CNA research sites that had gone back to Mexico on previous trips. If they could prove this, it would mean espionage charges. ---- :Security Office, Everett Field, Boston, Mass., N.C., CNA :8:12 AM, 29 November 1974 Harold Pickett was glad he'd left his Edward Allen papers in a long-term storage locker at the Black Rock airport. The security men had taken him twenty minutes after he disembarked from the airmobile. Now the only ID he had on him was that of ex-Sergeant Schultz of the German Army. As soon as the security team had confronted him he put on his German accent. I may just get out of this, he thought. He just hoped there was no problem getting a flight to Europe to replace the one he'd missed. The CBI man walked in. "Ah, Herr Schultz. I'm Agent Gray-Patrick. What were you doing with John Hanson in Black Rock, New York?" He gets right to the point, Pickett thought with approval. "I vas not vit zis man Hanson. I vas visiting ze sights; I have heard much of ze vaterfall zere. Most beautiful, ja." The agent frowned. "A likely story. We have a man with your description known to be meeting with Hanson and many anti-Confederation dissidents planning a mission of violence. We know you're lying." Pickett allowed himself to sweat a little under the hot light. The only illumination in the room was one bulb directly overhead. "Please, mein Herr, I know nothing." He allowed a little panic into his voice, like an unjustly accused man would. "You'll forgive me if I doubt you, Sergeant Schultz. Your papers indicate you were in the German Army, right?" "Ja. I spent my time as an infantryman, und zen I left ze service. I spend my time now as a simple chemist in Munich. I tell you, I know nothing." "Then why were you also--" Pickett never did find out his next question. Someone knocked at the door. Gray-Patrick opened it and another man peeked in. "Sir, we'd better let him go. We finally got a look at the passenger list for that flight, and it seems there was an Edward Allen on it transferring off a flight from Black Rock. Just like we'd been told to expect." Pickett's earlier approval went down a notch. If these two thought they were talking low enough that they couldn't be heard, they were wrong. "And we took this man based on our description, which he matches well. I'd say he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Can we get the flight to turn around?" "Unlikely, sir. They're already in international airspace, and out of our radio range. I don't know if the Germans would cooperate with an extradition request. I certainly wouldn't hold my breath." "I'll contact the Germans anyway." The agent walked back to where Pickett was sitting. "We're very sorry, Herr Schultz. Seems you just have an unlucky face is all." ---- :Over the Atlantic, :9:00 AM (Boston time), 29 November 1974 Eddie Allen of Black Rock leaned back in his seat. He was looking forward to this vacation to Germany. It had been twenty years since he'd really been able to get away from his lawyer job for a while. His mother's family was from Bavaria, and he was going to be happy to see them. ---- :Outside Black Rock, :10:00 PM, 29 November 1974 Agent Wyman Richards-Keith of the CBI was looking around the shed at the Sam Adams Brotherhood house. The house was removed from the city and the surrounding communities. In his months here, he'd seen all sorts of things. Now he was seeing the motherlode of all arms buildups. Just in this shed there were pistols, automatics, rifles, and crates upon crates of ammo and explosives. It would explain why the shed had been so big, and why it had a door in the floor leading down to a basement. How many tool sheds had a basement? "F--k," he whispered, then made his way out. He decided that he would probably need some evidence on the acquisition of all this stuff. Whoever was dealing illegal arms and explosives on the black market needed to be dealt with as much as the nuts planning to use them. ---- Forward to FAN #136 (Harold Pickett): If Dirt Were Dolares. Forward to 30 November 1974: Sweet Sorrow. Return to For All Nails. Category:Pickett